Because there's more to it than simple hatred.
He is my everything:
He is all that I have left.
Stupid, foolish child,
lying there on the bed
in the hospital wing
—Again—
his birds-nest of hair
pressed against a blank
pillow while it refuses to obscure
that awful scar, that ever-visible
reminder of how I have failed,
how I have sinned, how I have
Died, and I wonder, Why do I
bother? But I know the answer,
I know the reason: they stare unceasingly
at me, even when the idiot brat's
eyelids cover them from ordinary view,
they are so penetrating that in his
presence I feel almost as if
She is there, hidden, trapped,
and even without Her eyes glaring
at me with his customary hatred,
even while he lies there unconscious
appearing to all as no less than
his father's very clone, I see Her eyes.
I hate how my heart stops beating
every time he nearly dies.
I hate that he hates me.
I hate that I love him.
He is all that I have left.
He is my everything.
